Lion of Babylon

by Davis Bunn

“Don’t bunch up. Ready? Okay. Let’s go rescue some hostages.”

  – – Marc moved forward in a crouch, his heart pounding hard. The light was coming up very swiftly and burning away the mist. He had not expected this, how desert light seemed to ram its way through the sky, passing through all the gentle hues in seconds rather than minutes. Now there were neither shadows nor fog to hide them. They would have to rely on surprise and speed.

  He raced down the central road. To his right, the cliff loomed over the village. The satellite image had suggested the fields between the village and the river were now used for live-fire training. Which meant the open ground could be littered with live rounds, dummy charges, hidden alarms for training, anything. Marc’s team took the village’s only lane at a full sprint.

  An Iranian guard came up the trail leading to the fields and the river beyond. He was not alert to the prospect of interlopers coming toward him at a dead run. He spotted them a heartbeat before Marc plowed into him. Marc chopped him in the throat, cutting off the yell before it was formed.

  The man was well trained. He went for his side arm as he choked for breath and blocked Marc’s second strike. Marc did not give him the chance to draw. He was too close in to risk using the spray, so he clubbed the man between the eyes with the silver canister. Again. A third time. The man went down.

  Marc tried the spray on him, but the canister was bent at an angle now and refused to work. He tossed it away.

  “Here.” Hamid shoved his own at Marc, then bent over to lash the guard’s wrists and ankles. Duboe mashed tape across his mouth, then helped Hamid drag the man into the trees.

  Marc caught a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye. He sprinted across the open space before his brain actually identified what he had seen.

  Another guard was emerging from the alley between the target building and the barracks. He was bent over slightly, slurping from a mug in his hand. The mug probably saved Marc. The guard hesitated before dropping his drink and lifting the gun cradled in his other arm. Marc slammed into the guard, grabbing the man’s machine pistol and hammering him in the face.

  The guard was massive, a bearded giant with stained teeth, and savage enough to ignore his broken nose. He fitted his finger into the trigger and fired. The bullets dug a furrow in the ground. Marc used the machine pistol to smash the man’s face a second time, but the guard only snarled louder and swung the barrel so bullets raked along the building’s overhanging roof.

  Then Hamid and his men appeared, using their own weapons to strike the guard. He went down hard.

  Marc rounded the target building’s corner, jerking back as a panic-stricken third guard fired off a noisy burst. Marc pulled a compression grenade from his belt and lobbed it around the corner.

  The blast roared from the narrow space between the two buildings. Marc yelled, “Alex! Alex Baird! ”

  From inside the target building came a soft but distinct, “Here. In here.”

  Marc sprinted around the corner. The bearded guard lay sprawled by the building, blood seeping from his nose and one ear. He blinked groggily as Marc kicked his gun away, then flipped him over and tagged his wrists and ankles.

  Shouts rose from the surrounding cottages. It sounded as though the entire encampment was yelling. Marc found himself growing calmer as a result. For the first time since leaving the bus, he felt utterly in control. “Hamid!”

  “I hear you.”

  “Clear out the next house!”

  “We are on this!”

  Marc had to wait as Hamid and Duboe shattered the neighboring building’s shutters with automatic fire, then tossed in a compression grenade. Two. Three. Four. The window’s remnants blasted out as if the entire building sneezed. Then the roof groaned and slowly collapsed inward.

  Marc turned back to his target. The cottage’s two windows were barred and sealed. The original door had been replaced by a steel behemoth. The door’s lock would have better suited a safe. The hinges were internal, and the door was set in a concrete frame. “Alex, can you open the door on your side?”

  “It’s locked and sealed.”

  “Stand back. I’m using compression grenades. Clear the area!”

  Guns were now going off in every direction. Duboe and Hamid and his men were clustered at the alley’s opening beside the cottage, firing at unseen targets. “Josh! A little help!”

  “On it!”

  The sky overhead became laced with tracer fire. Marc settled two compression grenades at the bottom of the door, raced back, crouched with the other men, and yelled, “Cover your ears!”

  The alley bellowed and enveloped them in a cloud of dust and debris.

  Marc draped his mouth with the black kerchief and moved forward. The door hung on one hinge. Marc used his boot to hammer the point. Again. A third blow and the door crashed inward.

  “Alex!”

  “We’re here.”

  He ran forward and grabbed his coughing friend in a dusty embrace.

  Only then did Marc hear the children.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  M arc emerged from the house with a boy clinging to his neck. At that moment, the building’s corner evaporated in a cloud of gunfire. The shots came so rapidly it made for one whining drill.

  Hamid’s team was crouched along the alley, firing blindly through the dust. Hamid yelled, “They are flanking!”

  “Josh! We’re taking heavy fire down here!”

  Josh shouted in his ear, “We found the mother lode! You guys take cover!”

  Marc shoved the victims back inside the building, flattening those he could reach to the earth. “Down! Everybody down!”

  Screaming ribbons of light laced overhead. The floor beneath him bucked. Again. A third time. A fourth. The sound was so fierce it felt to Marc as though the air crumpled.

  Over the comm link came the sound of hooting. “Awesome,” Josh shouted. “Frank, break open another crate!”

  “Ready!”

  “Lock and load, gentlemen! Fire when ready!”

  The child had his mouth pressed against Marc’s left ear. The boy wailed one endless note, as though he had reached the level of fear where he did not need to draw breath. Marc held him close and let the kid scream for them both.

  Overhead there was another series of roaring whooshes, and the floor bucked again.

  Then came Duboe’s voice, oddly calm. “Choppers inbound.”

  Marc forced himself to his feet. “Duboe, get in here and help carry the kids! Hamid, stay on point. Josh!”

  “We got your back, baby! Looks to me like the whole place is running for the hills!”

  “Alex!”

  Marc heard a cough in reply.

  “Everybody needs to make for the field. Taufiq!”

  “Here.”

  “Translate that we have three helicopters coming in to pick us up. Everybody needs to help the young and injured.”

  Marc stood and waited while Duboe and Hamid’s men entered through the smoke and scooped up wailing little bodies. “Hannah Brimsley!”

  A woman covered in a dusty loose gown of indeterminate color and a headscarf was helping another woman stand. “That’s me.”

  “Josh is here.”

  Her smile brightened her whole face and shone through sudden tears. “I knew he’d come.”

  “Josh!”

  “Yo!”

  “Hannah sends her love. She’s looking good.”

  The shout over the comm link nearly took Marc’s head off. He heard some chuckles from the team.

  “Claire Reeves?” he called.

  A short woman, also in hijab, was tending an elderly lady on the floor. She waved and smiled, but her words were cut off as another trio of rockets screamed overhead. Marc endured the compressive blasts, then asked, “Josh, can we move?”

  “It’s looking good from this angle. I’m watching a whole mess of pantless, bootless, gunless recruits legging it for the exit.”

  “Hamid!”

  “We
see the same thing. Is very much beautiful.”

  Marc asked Taufiq, “Everybody knows to make for the helicopters landing in the field?”

  “I have said. They understand.”

  Alex appeared beside Marc. He was holding a young girl who shrieked in time to Marc’s boy. Alex’s week-old beard was scruffy, and his clothes were in tatters. His eyes were red-rimmed over hollow cheeks. But his smile was familiar and all the reward Marc would ever need. “Good to see you, brother.”

  “Everybody here ready? Okay, let’s move out!”

  The incoming choppers added their own thunder to the chaos. Marc emerged from the house to find Hamid crouched in the alley’s mouth. “We clear?”

  “I am seeing nothing!”

  “Everybody run! Go, go!”

  They rushed out of the alley and sprinted for the trail opening on the lane’s other side. The kidnap victims were unsteady on their feet, and the children were all screaming the same fearful tune. Hamid took point, his rifle up and ready.

  And then Hamid was caught by a sniper, a lone gunman who cracked off a shot that took Hamid high on the shoulder and flung him around.

  Marc was on the police major before he could fall. Hamid huffed painfully as he collided with Marc’s chest.

  “Josh! Sniper!”

  The sky overhead immediately was streaked with tracer fire. Marc yelled, “Everybody keep moving!”

  The boy was crushed in between Marc and Hamid, shrieking louder still. Hamid huffed again as the kid clawed at the wound. There was nothing Marc could do about that. He held both boy and Iraqi police major in the same fierce grip, and focused on the choppers, seventy yards out and closing. “Duboe!”

  The CIA agent moved up on Hamid’s other side. The Iraqi grunted as Duboe grasped him and took his weight.

  The six of them, Duboe and Hamid, Alex and Marc and two screaming children, took the trail at a stumbling jog, causing Hamid to groan with each step. Tracer fire overhead lit the day. The wonderful sound of the choppers filled his senses.

  Welcoming arms reached out and pulled Hamid into safety. Marc deposited the boy, then helped Alex and the child into the chopper.

  “Josh!” he called as he turned to help others.

  “On my way!”

  “Royce! Marc Royce!” A new voice called over the comm link.

  “Yo!”

  “Carter Dawes here. How many are you?”

  Marc tried to add the sums, but could not. “No idea!”

  Duboe replied for them, “The three choppers should be enough.”

  Claire Reeves came limping toward them, a small girl cradled in her arms. Marc asked, “Are you injured?” He could hardly see her features for all the grime.

  Claire smiled and shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong with me that a long bath and a hot meal won’t cure.”

  “We’ve got a wounded man in here.” He took the child and helped the nurse climb on board before handing the little one in after her. “Carter, we need battlefield dressings.”

  The pilot hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “In the net bag behind my seat.”

  “I found them,” Claire Reeves shouted over the sound of the rotors.

  Marc called, “Fareed, count your men!”

  “We are all here!”

  “Josh, Duboe!”

  “Good to go!” Josh leaped into the chopper, spotted Hannah Brimsley, and flew across the crowded space. Hannah kept one arm around the elderly woman and wrapped the other around Josh’s neck.

  The last man in was Duboe, streaked with dust and what appeared to be dried blood. Marc helped him aboard, gave the pilot an all clear, then asked, “You hit?”

  “Scratches.” Duboe shifted his pack around front and drew out a radio-controlled detonator. “Josh, we ready?”

  The Ranger slid back across the chopper floor to join them. “Should be. I planted every satchel bomb you gave me.”

  Duboe handed Marc the black rectangle. “My orders were to observe and report. You hit the switch.”

  Marc turned to where Alex leaned against the rear gunnel. He held out the detonator. “I believe this honor should be yours, friend.”

  Alex stared at him a moment, then reached over and took the equipment. He flipped open the trigger guard.

  Duboe yelled, “Fire in the hole!”

  Alex hit the button.

  For a long instant, nothing happened. Then the entire mountain appeared to shrug its shoulders.

  Fire shot from caves just below the ridge, beasts of flames and fury. The air heaved and rocked the choppers. The three machines tilted away from the blast, clawing for height. Marc felt a sudden surge of heat through the open door. It felt wonderful.

  When the choppers stabilized, they looked out over smoldering ruins. The valley was filled with new rubble, and the training field was no more.

  Marc turned back to find Hamid watching him over the nurse’s shoulder. His face was covered with grime, his wound now packed in bandages, but his eyes were alert. “Is good, yes?”

  “It’s excellent.” Marc leaned back in, satisfied. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  O ne glance at the ambassador’s pages was enough for Sameh to know he could not connect swiftly with these people.

  Leyla drove Sameh to the office, which granted him time to study the list and let his mind roam. The information was written in a feminine script, with large looped letters and bright blue ink. The names came straight out of the headlines and the nightly television newscasts. Each had two addresses, political and private, and a multitude of phone numbers. Sameh shook his head. Such high ranking officials never revealed their private residences, much less their personal phone numbers. The measure of trust in simply handing Sameh this list was extraordinary.

  Sameh knew he had no choice. Midway to the office, he took out his phone and a card from his pockets. He drew a single shaky breath, then dialed the number.

  Jaffar answered instantly. “I have been expecting your call.”

  “I need your help, Imam.”

  “No, no, my trusted friend. I am sorry, but you are mistaken. It is Iraq who needs yours. Now tell me what we must do.”

  – – Sameh’s secretary had both the television and the radio going when he entered his office. The senior imam’s message was scheduled to go out in two hours, to be carried live on national television and two radio stations. Jaffar arrived while they were still in the front office, listening to the excited newscaster describe the mystery and rumors surrounding the imam’s unexpected address. Sameh asked, “Should you not be with your father?”

  “I was present yesterday afternoon when my father taped the message. I was with him last night for the meeting of his council. I stood beside my father when he instructed the vizier to step down and return to the mosque.” Jaffar smiled his thanks for Aisha’s offer of tea. “I was there as my father signed the documents formally signaling his retirement, and the passing of his mantle to me.”

  Sameh needed a moment to find his voice. “Who else knows?”

  “My father’s former vizier, his council and senior advisers, the team who taped his final official talk. And now you.”

  “Please accept my heartfelt congratulations.”

  “Let us ensure there is a country for us both to serve,” Jaffar replied. “How do we proceed?”

  Sameh unfolded the ambassador’s list and handed it over. “How many of these people do you know?”

  Jaffar scanned swiftly. “All of them.”

  “Then I suggest Leyla and Aisha begin placing the calls. You need speak a few words only. Hand the phone on to me. I will pass on the ambassador’s message.”

  Jaffar lifted the pages. “He has asked your help with this task?”

  “This morning.”

  “May I ask the content of his message?”

  “Hold fast. Do not give up hope.”

  Jaffar smiled. “It will be my pleasure.”

  “I am in your debt.”


  “In the service to our nation, my friend, there is no such thing.”

  The calls were completed in less than one hour. The rumors of the imam’s retirement were already spreading. Mentioning Jaffar’s name drew every person on the ambassador’s list instantly to the phone. When Sameh passed on the ambassador’s curt communication, the response was almost universal. The men and women all took a long breath, then sighed with its release, as though the emotions they endured could be hidden no longer. All but two of them ended the conversation with the same request.

  Will you come?

  – – Sameh had never visited Parliament. To enter through the processional main doors, with the imam and their bodyguards, should have made for a moment of awe. But as they were mounting the grand front steps, his phone rang. When he saw the readout, his hands shook as badly as his voice. “Forgive me. I must take this.”

  Jaffar correctly read his demeanor. “You have news?”

  In reply, Sameh opened the phone. “Marc?”

  “It’s done.”

  The news robbed his legs of strength. Sameh sank down on the top step, startling his entourage. He waved the guards back and said, “You are safe?”

  “I’m good. Hamid caught one in the shoulder, but he’s stable.”

  The man’s calm tone did much to ease his tremors. “The children?”

  “We have them. And Taufiq. And Alex.” The helicopter’s thunder chopped his words into tight fragments. “And the two women. Even the grandmother. Claire Reeves is giving her another dose of insulin as we speak.”

  Sameh covered his eyes, but only long enough to offer a silent song of thanks. “I am entering Parliament now. May I tell the families?”

  “Tell whoever you want. Can you make sure the imam knows?”

  “Jaffar is here beside me.”

  Jaffar leaned over. “The children?”

  “Wait one moment, Marc.” Sameh said to the imam, “They are all safe. And Taufiq.”

  “Ask him where they were recovered.”

  “Marc, the imam wishes to know where-”

  “Twenty-eight miles inside Iran. A secret valley complex run by the Revolutionary Guard, where they have been training and arming Iraqi extremists. We found a cache of over a thousand shoulder-fired missiles.” Marc sounded both exhausted and thoroughly satisfied. “I’m happy to report the valley is no more. Neither are the missiles.”